


Doomsday

by ivystorm



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Canon Rewrite, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Gen, L'Manberg War of Independence on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), M/M, Minecraft, No Romance, No Smut, Novel, Platonic Relationships, Revolution, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivystorm/pseuds/ivystorm
Summary: Tommy, a young and reckless boy, joins his brother Wilbur with a group led by Dream to start a new life in isolation from the rest of the world. However, tensions soon develop between the members of this newly formed "Dream SMP," an unease that eventually blossoms into war.How will it play out? How will friendships be formed and fractured?And what will happen come doomsday?(A retelling of the events of the L'Manberg War of Independence on the Dream SMP, with added scenes, details, and plot points.)
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s), Tubbo & Tommyinnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Doomsday

The sky arched overhead, darkness creeping in from the east and a pink glow to the west as the sun reached out its last faint rays before the arrival of night. The crickets began their pulsating summer song. Shadows crept over the dense forest of tall sentinels for trees, each one likely over a hundred years old. Wind stirred the branches and rustled the leaves. All was at peace.

At the edge of the forest sat a house, connected to the nearby town by a winding dirt road. It was small, barely two stories, roughly built out of whole logs and tilted to a slight angle, clearly constructed by an amateur. An equally crude wooden fence lined the perimeter of a yard filled with overgrown weeds. The windows of the house were cloudy, the dark green paint on the front porch scratched and peeling.

To most, it might seem like a derelict, abandoned, miserable structure not worth any time. But for the young boy who had lived within its walls for more than ten years, it was home.

The boy's bedroom, a small room on the second floor of the house, had a steeply slanted ceiling and a single window looking out on the forest. There was not much in the way of furniture—a wooden wardrobe, a desk messily covered in papers filled with words and drawings, a guitar on a stand in the corner, a twin-sized bed with a dark green comforter where the boy sat doodling on a fresh piece of paper with a stick of charcoal.

Engrossed in the strokes of charcoal, the boy didn't take notice of the first knock at the bedroom door. He moved his hand from the paper and leaned back slightly to admire his work. He wasn't quite sure what it was—a ring within a larger ring—but he was proud of the shading he was still bent on mastering.

Another knock, this one louder, impatient. The boy looked up, snapping out of his focus. “Yes?” he called, pushing aside the mop of dark hair falling into his eyes.

The door opened with a creak and a man stepped inside, wearing his usual friendly smile and signature green-and-white striped bucket hat. “Hi, Will,” he said cheerily.

The boy sighed. “Hey, Dad.” He looked back down at his drawing and lifted the stick of charcoal once again. “What do you want?"

The man's smile fell slightly. “Wilbur,” he said, in a slightly firmer tone. “I've told you this. You shouldn't be sitting around your room all day. The weather is beautiful right now, and we're fortunate to be living among all this lovely nature. Remember I told you we were going to take a walk in the woods at sunset? With your mother?"

"Mhm,” Wilbur mumbled.

"Well, the sun is setting now, so we should leave before it gets too dark. I'm hoping to see some fireflies."

"Mhm,” the boy mumbled again. He was starting to sketch another drawing similar to his previous one.

His father waited for another moment. When Wilbur didn't look up, he added, “Be downstairs in two minutes, please."

"Mhm."

  * • •



As usual, the fourth step down gave a loud creak as Wilbur descended the steps to the first floor, alerting those in the living room below to his arrival.

His dad glanced at the clock. “Ah, Will, the king of punctuality. It's been five minutes already,” he said teasingly. 

"Just had to finish something,” Wilbur replied sullenly.

His dad laughed and walked over to his son to give him a pat on the back. “Come on, you gotta lighten up! You won't be getting any dates with that attitude. Maybe this evening walk will loosen your mood."

Wilbur finally looked up and offered a slight smile at his parents, one that soon dropped as he realized someone was missing. “Where's Techno?"

"Out training again, I would expect,” his father replied, looking at Will's mother for clarification.

"Mhm, that's right,” she said, nodding. “I saw him leaving this morning. He's preparing extra hard for that dueling tournament coming up in a few weeks."

"...Oh. Yeah. Of course.” Wilbur hadn't so much as seen his older brother in at least a week. Techno never made time to spend with him anymore. He was too busy pursuing his competitive spirit by sparring with classmates and building up his collection of trophies. Wilbur missed their banter, the laughter and conversations they shared that lasted for hours on end. He missed the early stages of Techno's training, the afternoons where Wilbur would follow him outside and they'd spar together.

Now he was too busy for Wilbur. Too busy winning in the world and being the golden child of the family. And Wilbur was happy for him, but... he missed his brother.

"Anyway, everyone ready to go?” His father's voice cut through his thoughts. “Night won't wait for us."

He was right. The light was quickly fading from the sky as the sun sank out of view. They had ten minutes at most before darkness set in.

The three exited the house, Wilbur's mother shutting the door gently behind them as they walked down the well-worn dirt path into the forest.

As much as Wilbur had been reluctant to leave his room, he soon found himself enjoying the fresh air and the many sounds of the forest—the rustling of leaves and undergrowth, the chirping of crickets, the creak of the branches overhead just barely audible if he listened hard enough and tuned out the small talk his parents were making. He couldn't help but smile when he spotted the shadowy outline of a deer trotting through the trees, and ran his hand over the rough, weathered bark of the trunks as he passed.

The family soon came to a small clearing with a merry little brook running through the center, where Wilbur's parents stopped to look up and admire the darkening sky. Wilbur, now restless, wandered away to the other side of the clearing. Gazing into the depths of the forest, movement caught his eye. The deer again? Wanting to possibly get a closer look, he began to tread into the woods, unaided by any path.

The ground was barely visible beneath the layers of decomposing leaves and undergrowth, and Wilbur had to step carefully to avoid tripping over the many tree roots crisscrossing the forest floor. But then he saw another flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, prompting him to start moving faster, jumping from root to root as he chased the silhouette that he could barely make out through the encroaching darkness.

He wasn't sure why he was so bent on pursuing this deer, or what he presumed was one. It just felt important to him. Like he would miss something profound if he failed to catch up. Like the animal was leading him somewhere, somewhere he needed to be. He sped up, starting to go at a full sprint, completely disregarding the danger of falling or slamming into a tree.

At last he was starting to get closer, gaining ground on his quarry, but was already beginning to tire, not having run this much in months. Still, he pushed himself to keep moving, to keep throwing one foot in front of the other to try to make the most of the length of his legs.

Wilbur focused in on the animal ahead, its features becoming clearer and clearer with every stride. The trees around him were a blur, as was the ground rushing by underneath his feet. His vision narrowed, blocking out any and all distraction. He was so close. He could see the speckles on the pelt of what he was nearly certain now was a doe, could see a large, dark eye gleaming slightly as its head turned to look behind at the boy sprinting towards it.

Even closer. He could see a drop of moisture glistening on the deer's nose, could hear its quiet but exerted breathing as it bounded through the trees. He reached out a hand.

The world split open.

A flash of blinding light, followed a split second later by a deafening crack that seemed to shake the earth to its core. For a moment, all senses left Wilbur's body as he hovered in the air, arm still outstretched.

Then the world returned. He felt his feet hit the ground hard, knees buckling from the impact. He fell over onto his hands and knees, breathing heavily, heart pounding rapidly in his chest. Blinking rapidly away the light and afterimages seared onto his retinas, he looked up and saw that the deer was gone, vanished entirely in the now complete darkness.

Sound came back, and with it came the sudden noise of rain pouring down in torrents, hitting the leaves so forcefully it was as if there was intent to rip them off the trees. The canopy above was not enough to prevent rivulets of water from streaming down Wilbur's face and soaking his sweatshirt.

Adrenaline draining away, fear began to seep in. He was alone, it was dark, and he had no idea where he was or how far he had run chasing that stupid deer. A chill ran through Wilbur's body, and he felt his nose burn as tears rose to his eyes. He was such an idiot.

He must have stayed there, staring down at the forest floor and rain dripping off the tip of his nose, for at least a full minute before finally lifting his head and rising shakily to his feet. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he looked around at the shadowy trunks surrounding him, seemingly identical in all directions.

Could he try retracing his steps? He was vaguely certain he had come from  _ that  _ direction, but the more he thought about it the less confident he became. His breaths began coming short and fast, indicating the onset of panic. He had no idea what to do, or where to go, or what could happen to him in a forest at night.

_ I have to focus on the positive,  _ he thought. _ Positive, positive, what is positive right now? _

A moment of frantic thought-combing.

_ Well, it probably hasn't been too long. I don't seem to be injured. And I'm not dead... yet. _

Wilbur took several deep, calming breaths, trying to slow his racing heart. He closed his eyes to help himself relax, but they snapped back open after only a moment when he heard a slight rustle to his left. His heartbeat picked up tempo again as he held his breath and stayed as still as possible, despite the involuntary shivers from being soaking wet.

So much for being calm.

Without moving his head, Wilbur scanned the area where the sound had come from with his eyes. Nothing. 

But then again, it was dark. And the rain was blurring his vision.

Tentatively, Wilbur let himself exhale.

Another rustle, louder this time. There was no way he was being paranoid. But it was most likely just a squirrel or something moving around in the undergrowth... right?

A third rustle, accompanied by the sharp crack of a snapping twig. Nope, that was something much larger than your friendly neighborhood woodland rodent.

The sounds also seemed to be getting closer. That was probably a bad thing. It might be a good idea for Wilbur to run. But he didn't feel like he was physically capable of urging his legs to move at that speed again. And as much as he was scared, he was also curious. 

So he reached into his back pocket, where he had just remembered he always kept a small box of matches, at the urging of his father. Cupping one hand over the box as a shield against the downpour, he clumsily struck a match, wincing slightly as the bright flame suddenly cut through the darkness.

Keeping his hand carefully cupped around the flame, Wilbur lifted the lit match slowly in the direction where he had heard the rustling, illuminating the surrounding trees in a faint glow.

Then he saw it.

A glint of something shiny. Something that did not belong in the middle of a centuries-old forest at night. He took an involuntary step forward. The glint shifted.

Wilbur could now make out the shape of a figure—a human figure—lying on the forest floor. His gaze moved up from the glint of the object half-hidden inside a worn leather satchel to a face smudged with dirt, punctuated by two wide, impossibly-bright blue eyes staring back up at him.

Wilbur started in shock, accidentally bumping the matchstick against his hand, sending a sharp burning pain across the palm. He let out an unconscious yelp and quickly dropped the match. The tiny flame fizzled out immediately on the rain-slicked ground. 

Squinting through the newly restored darkness, Wilbur could still make out the figure lying only a few feet away from him. He took another step towards it.

He could hear fast, labored breathing that quickened as he moved closer. 

Lightning flashed again, this time not as bright. But it was enough for Wilbur to see the face again, and see that it was filled with fear, with desperation, with helplessness. Through the sound of the incessant downpour, he could hear a high-pitched, weak, trembling voice. “Please..."

Thunder rumbled. Wilbur paused and looked down at the figure in the mud, not sure what to do.  _ Who are you? _ he wanted to scream.  _ Why was I led here? I don't want to be here. I don't fucking want to be here. What's stopping me from leaving right now? _

But he didn't say any of that, because deep down, he knew the answer to that last question.

He hesitated for a moment. He could still see the blue eyes, staring at him, boring into his soul.

So he gathered his resolve. And he held out a hand.

  * • •



"Wilbur!” 

"Will, please, where are you? Wilbur?"

The faint but overwhelmingly familiar voices nearly made Wilbur collapse in relief. He had been struggling through the dark forest for what had seemed like hours. It didn't help that there was a small, impossibly-blue-eyed boy clutching his arm.

The younger child's foot seemed to be broken, and he couldn't walk without heavy support, and even then their progress through the shadowy trees had been snail-like. The rain had finally stopped, though drops of water still fell from the leaves above.

"Mum! Dad! I'm here! I'm okay!” Wilbur yelled, as loud as he could though he was out of breath.

The voices stopped for a moment. Then,

"... Will? Is that you?"

"Yes!” Tears filled his eyes and spilled over, but he didn't bother to wipe them away. “Yes!” Newfound energy surged into Wilbur's legs, and he began to move faster, towards the voices of his parents, practically carrying the boy as he began to run.

He could see light now, from the lanterns that lined the back porch. The trail Wilbur and his parents had entered the forest through came into view. Then he broke out of the trees, onto the untended grass of the backyard.

And he saw them. Standing with their arms around each other, deep worry and fear etched onto their faces, expressions that quickly dissolved when they saw their son running towards them.

Wilbur didn't stop until he was in the warmth and safety of their arms. But the hug didn't last long. It was only a second before his father pulled away and asked, “Who is this?"

His tone was cautious, questioning, not necessarily hostile, but still Wilbur—and the blue-eyed boy—shrunk back.

"Um—” Wilbur was overloaded with emotions. He didn't want to explain anything. He just wanted to have a nice warm bath and fall asleep smothered in blankets.

"Who is this?” Wilbur's dad repeated.

"I—”  _ What can I say? I don't know. “ _ —I don't know."

His father looked past Wilbur to the boy hiding in his shadow, staring at the ground. Feeling eyes on him, the boy looked up, making eye contact briefly before glancing nervously away again.

Wilbur's father took in the matted blond hair, the torn cloak much too long for such a young child, the worn leather satchel kept clutched protectively to the boy's side, the injured foot, with no covering except the mud, lifted slightly off the ground. 

After a moment of tense silence, he suddenly relaxed and his sharp gaze softened.

"Come inside—both of you,” he said. “No individual in need is unwelcome here."

  * • •



"How does that feel?” Wilbur's father asked the blue-eyed boy kindly as he laid his broken foot, tightly bound in a splint, down on the countertop where the boy, the mud sponged away from his hair and face, was sitting.

"Still hurts,” the boy replied. “But thanks."

Wilbur watched his dad tend to the newcomer from where he sat, slumped with exhaustion, in a nearby chair. Now that there was more light and the grime had been wiped away, he could see the younger boy with better clarity.

He couldn't have been older than five, with a skinny frame and a head of messy blond hair. He had still not relinquished the satchel he held close to his side. One of its straps was broken, dangling off the edge of the countertop. 

Wilbur's dad walked over to a pot bubbling on the stove and lifted the lid, releasing a cloud of steam and the enticing aroma of rich broth. He ladled a generous amount of soup into two wooden bowls, handing one to the blonde boy and the other to Wilbur. 

"Thanks,” mumbled the younger boy, finally letting go of the satchel he had been clutching and immediately beginning to gulp down the steaming broth. Wilbur took a small sip, then, realizing how hungry he was, downed the entire bowl, ignoring how the hot liquid scorched his mouth and throat.

His dad refilled the bowls and the two drank their second helpings less ferociously this time. While they did that, he leaned on the countertop next to the blue-eyed boy, seeming to be deep in thought. After a few moments, he spoke, his tone gentle but demanding.

"Could you tell us your name?"

The boy looked up, wide-eyed, from his bowl of soup. He paused for a second too long before saying, “...Tommy.” And even then, his voice was wavering and uncertain.

"Just Tommy?"

"Yeah.” His tone had solidified, more confident in his answer now. “Well... that's what I remember."

"Tommy, do you remember where you live? Where your home is?"

Another moment of uncertainty. Eventually, the boy shook his head.

Wilbur's dad frowned. “Can you describe anything about where you live?"

Another hesitation as the boy named Tommy thought hard again, but to no avail. Another resigned shake of the head.

"What about people? Do you remember your parents? Other family? Friends?"

The same moment of thinking, the same silent response.

A change of tactic. “Okay, then what  _ do _ you remember?"

Tommy set down the half-finished soup bowl and stared at the polished stone of the countertop, eyes narrowed, concentrating and trying to sort out his jumbled, scattered memories. “I—I remember the forest. I was running... I don't know why. But I was scared... really scared. I tripped... fell... it hurt. It hurt so much."

The boy took in a deep, shuddering breath.

"Then everything suddenly was so bright... and the ground shook... and it started raining... then I saw—” he looked over at the other boy in the chair across the room “—uh, your name is Wilbur, right?"

Wilbur nodded. “Yeah. That's me."

"I saw Wilbur, and he saw me, and yeah. That's all. That's all I remember."

Tommy leaned back against the wall, exhausted.

"Nothing else?” Wilbur's father prompted.

"Nothing. Nothing. I can't remember anything else.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

Then Wilbur spoke up. “What about that bag next to you? What's in there?"

Tommy glanced down at the satchel and started as if he hadn't realized it had been there all this time. “I—"

He lifted up the top flap of the bag, which had lost its fastening button, and with trembling fingers pulled out two thin, round, flat objects. They were made of a shiny dark material and had smaller circles of color—one green, one purple-and-white—in their centers.

The moment Wilbur saw the objects, he felt a chill run through him. 

Because they were terrifyingly familiar. And he knew why. 

He had drawn those objects just earlier that evening, right before he had left the house and found the boy in the forest. Down to every little detail, every subtlety in pattern and texture. He could have sworn his heart stopped for a moment in shock.

Oblivious to Wilbur's realization, his father took the objects from Tommy's hands, holding them gently and carefully as he examined them. 

"Music discs...” he said. “It's been a while since I've encountered any... they don't have them in this area... But these are no music discs I've ever seen before.” He looked back at the blond-haired boy. “Tommy, do these trigger any more memories?"

The discs were handed back to the boy, and he stared at them for several seconds before saying, “This one"—he indicated the one with the green center—"is called Cat. This one"—pointing to the one with the purple-and-white pattern—"is Mellohi. That's all I know."

"But they're important to you,” Wilbur said, having gotten over his initial shock. “You never let go of that satchel from the moment I found you.”  _ There's no way me having drawn those discs was a coincidence. Hell, I didn't even know that those things were called discs, or that they were related to music. There's something else going on. _

_ Do I believe in destiny? Was I fated to find this boy in the woods? Why? _

"They are,” Tommy replied thoughtfully. “I just don't know why.” He yawned suddenly. “I'm tired.” Then, realizing something, he paused and looked nervously up at Wilbur's dad. “Er—sorry—"

Before the young boy could finish his sentence, Wilbur's mom swiveled around swiftly in her seat and said, “Now listen here, little one, don't ever apologize for wanting basic human necessities. You are getting the softest pillows and blankets we can spare."

She promptly marched off to the cabinet where such pillows and blankets were kept and began to assemble a makeshift but comfortable sleeping area on the living room couch. Wilbur's dad patted Tommy kindly on the shoulder. “Get some rest, kid. You're safe with us. And hey—maybe we can find you a jukebox for you to play those discs in."

The boy beamed down at the countertop, abashed. “T-thank you."

"No worries,” was the warm reply. Then Wilbur heard his dad's footsteps come over to him.

"Will.” His tone had shifted to a more serious one. Wilbur looked up nervously.

"Look, Dad, I'm really sorry, I know I shouldn't have left—"

"I just wanted to say that I'm proud of you, son."

Wilbur's eyes widened in surprise.

"You may have done an irresponsible thing by running away into the middle of the woods without so much as telling us, but you may very well have saved a life today.” Wilbur followed his father's gaze to where Tommy was sitting, an expression of exhausted relief on his face. “I know how much you feel like you're in Techno's shadow, that you're somehow less valuable than he is. You've beyond proved your worth tonight."

Wilbur felt a glow of happiness from the words, but before he could reply, the front door opened and a tall, gangly figure strode in, shoulder-length pink hair swirling around his face and sword sheathed at his side. Speak of the devil.

Wilbur's older brother took off his cloak, moving to put it in its usual spot in the closet when he noticed the family all gathered in the living room—and another, unfamiliar face.

"What's this? Family reunion?” Techno asked in his characteristic dry, mildly sarcastic voice. “Looks about right."

"Ah, Techno, you're back earlier than usual today. How was training?” his father inquired.

"I get the inclination to engage in small talk, Dad, but I'm not interested in offering up a generic response to a question you ask every single time you see me when the elephant in the room is currently staring at us.” Tommy quickly averted his gaze.

His dad laughed. “Always one to get straight to the point. Of course. Well, long story short, Wilbur found this little guy alone in the forest. He needed food, medical care and a place to stay, so here we are."

Techno nodded slowly. “Alright, but who  _ is _ he?"

His dad hesitated for a moment, looking over at the young child with the bound-up foot and the music discs and the impossibly-blue eyes. Then he turned back to his eldest son.

"He's your brother now, Techno. Your new brother."


End file.
